The Dead Witness: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Detective Stories

by Michael Sims

  The Assassin’s Natal Autograph

  I have now done with my theory, and will proceed to the evidences by which I propose to try to prove its soundness.” Wilson took up several of his strips of glass. When the audience recognized these familiar mementos of Pudd’nhead’s old time childish “puttering” and folly, the tense and funereal interest vanished out of their faces, and the house burst into volleys of relieving and refreshing laughter, and Tom chirked up and joined in the fun himself; but Wilson was apparently not disturbed. He arranged his records on the table before him, and said:

  “I beg the indulgence of the court while I make a few remarks in explanation of some evidence which I am about to introduce, and which I shall presently ask to be allowed to verify under oath on the witness stand. Every human being carries with him from his cradle to his grave certain physical marks which do not change their character, and by which he can always be identified—and that without shade of doubt or question. These marks are his signature, his physiological autograph, so to speak, and this autograph can not be counterfeited, nor can he disguise it or hide it away, nor can it become illegible by the wear and mutations of time. This signature is not his face—age can change that beyond recognition; it is not his hair, for that can fall out; it is not his height, for duplicates of that exist; it is not his form, for duplicates of that exist also, whereas this signature is each man’s very own—there is no duplicate of it among the swarming populations of the globe! [The audience were interested once more.]

  “This autograph consists of the delicate lines or corrugations with which Nature marks the insides of the hands and the soles of the feet. If you will look at the balls of your fingers—you that have very sharp eyesight—you will observe that these dainty curving lines lie close together, like those that indicate the borders of oceans in maps, and that they form various clearly defined patterns, such as arches, circles, long curves, whorls, etc., and that these patters differ on the different fingers. [Every man in the room had his hand up to the light now, and his head canted to one side, and was minutely scrutinizing the balls of his fingers; there were whispered ejaculations of “Why, it’s so—I never noticed that before!”] The patterns on the right hand are not the same as those on the left. [Ejaculations of “Why, that’s so, too!”] Taken finger for finger, your patterns differ from your neighbor’s. [Comparisons were made all over the house—even the judge and jury were absorbed in this curious work.] The patterns of a twin’s right hand are not the same as those on his left. One twin’s patterns are never the same as his fellow twin’s patterns—the jury will find that the patterns upon the finger balls of the twins’ hands follow this rule. [An examination of the twins’ hands was begun at once.] You have often heard of twins who were so exactly alike that when dressed alike their own parents could not tell them apart. Yet there was never a twin born in to this world that did not carry from birth to death a sure identifier in this mysterious and marvelous natal autograph. That once known to you, his fellow twin could never personate him and deceive you.”

  Wilson stopped and stood silent. Inattention dies a quick and sure death when a speaker does that. The stillness gives warning that something is coming. All palms and finger balls went down now, all slouching forms straightened, all heads came up, all eyes were fastened upon Wilson’s face. He waited yet one, two, three moments, to let his pause complete and perfect its spell upon the house; then, when through the profound hush he could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, he put out his hand and took the Indian knife by the blade and held it aloft where all could see the sinister spots upon its ivory handle; then he said, in a level and passionless voice:

  “Upon this haft stands the assassin’s natal autograph, written in the blood of that helpless and unoffending old man who loved you and whom you all loved. There is but one man in the whole earth whose hand can duplicate that crimson sign”—he paused and raised his eyes to the pendulum swinging back and forth—“and please God we will produce that man in this room before the clock strikes noon!”

  Stunned, distraught, unconscious of its own movement, the house half rose, as if expecting to see the murderer appear at the door, and a breeze of muttered ejaculations swept the place. “Order in the court!—sit down!” This from the sheriff. He was obeyed, and quiet reigned again. Wilson stole a glance at Tom, and said to himself, “He is flying signals of distress now; even people who despise him are pitying him; they think this is a hard ordeal for a young fellow who has lost his benefactor by so cruel a stroke—and they are right.” He resumed his speech:

  “For more than twenty years I have amused my compulsory leisure with collecting these curious physical signatures in this town. At my house I have hundreds upon hundreds of them. Each and every one is labeled with name and date; not labeled the next day or even the next hour, but in the very minute that the impression was taken. When I go upon the witness stand I will repeat under oath the things which I am now saying. I have the fingerprints of the court, the sheriff, and every member of the jury. There is hardly a person in this room, white or black, whose natal signature I cannot produce, and not one of them can so disguise himself that I cannot pick him out from a multitude of his fellow creatures and unerringly identify him by his hands. And if he and I should live to be a hundred I could still do it. [The interest of the audience was steadily deepening now.]

  “I have studied some of these signatures so much that I know them as well as the bank cashier knows the autograph of his oldest customer. While I turn my back now, I beg that several persons will be so good as to pass their fingers through their hair, and then press them upon one of the panes of the window near the jury, and that among them the accused may set THEIR finger marks. Also, I beg that these experimenters, or others, will set their fingers upon another pane, and add again the marks of the accused, but not placing them in the same order or relation to the other signatures as before—for, by one chance in a million, a person might happen upon the right marks by pure guesswork, ONCE, therefore I wish to be tested twice.”

  He turned his back, and the two panes were quickly covered with delicately lined oval spots, but visible only to such persons as could get a dark background for them—the foliage of a tree, outside, for instance. Then upon call, Wilson went to the window, made his examination, and said:

  “This is Count Luigi’s right hand; this one, three signatures below, is his left. Here is Count Angelo’s right; down here is his left. How for the other pane: here and here are Count Luigi’s, here and here are his brother’s.” He faced about. “Am I right?”

  A deafening explosion of applause was the answer. The bench said:

  “This certainly approaches the miraculous!”

  Wilson turned to the window again and remarked, pointing with his finger:

  “This is the signature of Mr. Justice Robinson. [Applause.] This, of Constable Blake. [Applause.] This of John Mason, juryman. [Applause.] This, of the sheriff. [Applause.] I cannot name the others, but I have them all at home, named and dated, and could identify them all by my fingerprint records.”

  He moved to his place through a storm of applause—which the sheriff stopped, and also made the people sit down, for they were all standing and struggling to see, of course. Court, jury, sheriff, and everybody had been too absorbed in observing Wilson’s performance to attend to the audience earlier.

  “Now then,” said Wilson, “I have here the natal autographs of the two children—thrown up to ten times the natural size by the pantograph, so that anyone who can see at all can tell the markings apart at a glance. We will call the children A and B. Here are A’s finger marks, taken at the age of five months. Here they are again taken at seven months. [Tom started.] They are alike, you see. Here are B’s at five months, and also at seven months. They, too, exactly copy each other, but the patterns are quite different from A’s, you observe. I shall refer to these again presently, but we will turn them face down now.

  “Here, thrown up ten sizes, are the
natal autographs of the two persons who are here before you accused of murdering Judge Driscoll. I made these pantograph copies last night, and will so swear when I go upon the witness stand. I ask the jury to compare them with the finger marks of the accused upon the windowpanes, and tell the court if they are the same.”

  He passed a powerful magnifying glass to the foreman.

  One juryman after another took the cardboard and the glass and made the comparison. Then the foreman said to the judge:

  “Your honor, we are all agreed that they are identical.”

  Wilson said to the foreman:

  “Please turn that cardboard face down, and take this one, and compare it searchingly, by the magnifier, with the fatal signature upon the knife handle, and report your finding to the court.”

  Again the jury made minute examinations, and again reported:

  “We find them to be exactly identical, your honor.”

  Wilson turned toward the counsel for the prosecution, and there was a clearly recognizable note of warning in his voice when he said:

  “May it please the court, the state has claimed, strenuously and persistently, that the bloodstained fingerprints upon that knife handle were left there by the assassin of Judge Driscoll. You have heard us grant that claim, and welcome it.” He turned to the jury: “Compare the fingerprints of the accused with the fingerprints left by the assassin—and report.”

  The comparison began. As it proceeded, all movement and all sound ceased, and the deep silence of an absorbed and waiting suspense settled upon the house; and when at last the words came, “THEY DO NOT EVEN RESEMBLE,” a thundercrash of applause followed and the house sprang to its feet, but was quickly repressed by official force and brought to order again. Tom was altering his position every few minutes now, but none of his changes brought repose nor any small trifle of comfort. When the house’s attention was become fixed once more, Wilson said gravely, indicating the twins with a gesture:

  “These men are innocent—I have no further concern with them. [Another outbreak of applause began, but was promptly checked.] We will now proceed to find the guilty. [Tom’s eyes were starting from their sockets—yes, it was a cruel day for the bereaved youth, everybody thought.] We will return to the infant autographs of A and B. I will ask the jury to take these large pantograph facsimilies of A’s marked five months and seven months. Do they tally?”

  The foreman responded: “Perfectly.”

  “Now examine this pantograph, taken at eight months, and also marked A. Does it tally with the other two?”

  The surprised response was:

  “NO—THEY DIFFER WIDELY!”

  “You are quite right. Now take these two pantographs of B’s autograph, marked five months and seven months. Do they tally with each other?”

  “Yes—perfectly.”

  “Take this third pantograph marked B, eight months. Does it tally with B’s other two?”

  “BY NO MEANS!”

  “Do you know how to account for those strange discrepancies? I will tell you. For a purpose unknown to us, but probably a selfish one, somebody changed those children in the cradle.”

  This produced a vast sensation, naturally; Roxana was astonished at this admirable guess, but not disturbed by it. To guess the exchange was one thing, to guess who did it quite another. Pudd’nhead Wilson could do wonderful things, no doubt, but he couldn’t do impossible ones. Safe? She was perfectly safe. She smiled privately.

  “Between the ages of seven months and eight months those children were changed in the cradle”—he made one of his effect-collecting pauses, and added—“and the person who did it is in this house!”

  Roxy’s pulses stood still! The house was thrilled as with an electric shock, and the people half rose as if to seek a glimpse of the person who had made that exchange. Tom was growing limp; the life seemed oozing out of him. Wilson resumed:

  “A was put into B’s cradle in the nursery; B was transferred to the kitchen and became a Negro and a slave [Sensation—confusion of angry ejaculations]—but within a quarter of an hour he will stand before you white and free! [Burst of applause, checked by the officers.] From seven months onward until now, A has still been a usurper, and in my finger record he bears B’s name. Here is his pantograph at the age of twelve. Compare it with the assassin’s signature upon the knife handle. Do they tally?”

  The foreman answered:

  “TO THE MINUTEST DETAIL!”

  Wilson said, solemnly:

  “The murderer of your friend and mine—York Driscoll of the generous hand and the kindly spirit—sits in among you. Valet de Chambre, Negro and slave—falsely called Thomas a Becket Driscoll—make upon the window the fingerprints that will hang you!”

  Tom turned his ashen face imploring toward the speaker, made some impotent movements with his white lips, then slid limp and lifeless to the floor.

  Wilson broke the awed silence with the words:

  “There is no need. He has confessed.”

  C. L. Pirkis

  (1841–1910)

  Catherine Louisa Pirkis occupies a unique position in crime fiction. She was the first known female writer to create a female detective: an intelligent and resourceful young woman with the curious name of Loveday Brooke. And Brooke has the distinction of being not only a salaried professional private investigator but one who isn’t presented as hyperfeminine to balance out her allegedly unfeminine career—unlike characters such as Madelyn Mack, created by Hugh Weir, or Dora Myrl, created by M. McDonnell Bodkin. Nor is Brooke working to support a disowned sister, like Violet Strange, or because her husband went blind, like Dorcas Dene, both of whom appear in this anthology. Brooke is simply a professional. Pirkis describes her as “neither handsome nor ugly,” and in fact “nondescript,” which seems a virtue for a real-life detective but a shocking anomaly for a fictional woman in the field. Brooke’s adventures also stand alone rather than forming a story cycle, a popular unifying gimmick at the time.

  Brooke is also unusual in her social mobility. Her work requires that she make her way through Victorian society, from parlor to alley, unaccompanied by a man. Brooke’s adroit navigation of various levels of society, thanks to a talent for disguise and mimicry, gives Pirkis an opportunity to quietly critique the social conventions of her time. Throughout the series, Pirkis views the world around her—the backroom labor of forgotten poor women, the casual dehumanization of immigrants, the poverty in the streets—with a clearheaded gaze unusual among the mostly escapist crime writers of her era. Brooke and her boss, Ebenezer Dyer, “chief of the well-known detective agency in Lynch Court, Fleet Street,” often argue, but he respects her talents and hard work. Although in one story Brooke gets rescued at the last minute by men, it was she who went in after the villain and arranged for the men’s arrival.

  Pirkis’s first of fourteen volumes of fiction was published in 1877 and her last, a collection of stories about Brooke, in 1894. In 1891 she and her husband, a retired naval officer, founded the National Canine Defence League. After Loveday Brooke, Pirkis devoted the remaining sixteen years of her life to campaigning for the better welfare of the nation’s countless dogs. The organization became the major educational and lobbying force against everything from casual abuse and neglect to science-minded exploitation such as vivisection and, eventually, the use of dogs in early space exploration. In 2003, more than a century after Pirkis founded it, the National Canine Defence League became the Dogs Trust.

  A series of six Loveday Brooke stories appeared between February and July of 1893 in the newly founded Ludgate Monthly, which identified itself as a “family magazine,” part of the targeted marketing aimed at new female readers. “The Murder at Troyte’s Hill,” the second installment, was published in the March issue. Pirkis added a seventh story that appeared in March 1894, after the periodical had changed its name to reflect the times and become The Ludgate Illustrated Magazine. The same year, Hutchinson & Company published the seven stories in The Experiences of Loveda
y Brooke, Lady Detective. Like the debut story, “The Black Bag Left on a Door-Step,” this one takes off in the first sentence, in a lively dialogue between Brooke and her boss, Ebenezer Dyer. The opening description of Brooke that begins this selection comes from the debut story. “The Murder at Troyte’s Hill” actually begins after the row of asterisks.

  The Murder at Troyte’s Hill

  Loveday Brooke, at this period of her career, was a little over thirty years of age, and could be best described in a series of negations.

  She was not tall, she was not short; she was not dark, she was not fair; she was neither handsome nor ugly. Her features were altogether nondescript; her one noticeable trait was a habit she had, when absorbed in thought, of dropping her eyelids over her eyes till only a line of eyeball showed, and she appeared to be looking out at the world through a slit, instead of through a window.

  Her dress was invariably black, and was almost Quaker-like in its neat primness. Some five or six years previously, by a jerk of Fortune’s wheel, Loveday had been thrown upon the world penniless and all but friendless. Marketable accomplishments she had found she had none, so she had forthwith defied convention, and had chosen for herself a career that had cut her off sharply from her former associates and her position in society. For five or six years she drudged away patiently in the lower walks of her profession; then chance, or, to speak more precisely, an intricate criminal case, threw her in the way of the experienced head of the flourishing detective agency in Lynch Court. He quickly enough found out the stuff she was made of, and threw her in the way of better-class work—work, indeed, that brought increase of pay and of reputation alike to him and to Loveday.